


What Now, My Love?

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dashed Dreams, Falling In Love, Gap Filler, M/M, New York City, Season/Series 01, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-20 14:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2432120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At long last his dreams are within his grasp.  Brian is headed to New York City and a new life.  Except he isn't . . . .  What happens when your life falls apart and your dreams crumble in your hands?  That's when you fall in love and suddenly all bets are off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set during Season One, episodes 21 and 22. It's a canon-compliant gap-filler. There are three parts.

The boys were so gullible. Brian smiled at them benignly as they climbed into the Jeep. When they were all situated – Mikey in the passenger seat and Emmett and Ted in the back – Brian got in and started the engine.

Even though he’d assured them to the contrary, he’d never been to New York City. He’d been to Cleveland and Chicago and Cincinnati, but he’d never been east of the Delaware Water Gap. It was a secret. No one knew, not even Mikey. He’d alluded to a lost weekend or two in SoHo when he was in college but turned down invitations to elaborate with an enigmatic smile.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of going to New York; rather he was afraid of never leaving. His favorite novel was F. Scott Fitzgerald’s _The Great Gatsby_. He’d seen the green light, and it was New York City. He could be anyone there. All the things that held him back – he could shrug them off like a musty, old coat.

They were on a Debbie-imposed mission to find Justin. Brian admitted to himself grudgingly that he’d probably go after Justin even without her threats, but not with an entourage. Not even Mikey. The truth was that he was embarrassed. He had no fucking clue how to drive in New York City. The main streets – Hudson River, Broadway, Park Avenue, South Houston, 14th Street – were just names as were Midtown, Battery Park, Morningside, Greenwich Village, Alphabet City, Washington Square, Gramercy Park, the Silk Stocking and Meat Packing districts. He didn’t want anyone to find out that when it came to the Big Apple he was a babe in the woods.

He’d read _The Great Gatsby_ when he was thirteen – the same year he read _Catcher in the Rye_. Then he read _The City of Light_ , _A Meaningful Life_ (which influenced him probably too much) and _The Invisible Man_. Later he read (along with all the other Young Republicans) _The Bonfire of the Vanities_ and watched _West Side Story_ and _Wall Street_ more times than he’d admit even if water boarded. But of them all . . . and this was _really_ embarrassing . . . his favorite New York City movie was _Saturday Night Fever_ and not because John Travolta was hot as hell. The 2001 Odyssey Club, where Tony Manero spent his nights as “king of the dance floor,” was Babylon without the go-go boys. And Brian was Tony – without the Bee Gees, of course – and the seventies-era shirts. 

But reading and watching movies and fantasizing about New York were different from actually going there. The morning commuter traffic was fucking horrendous. They sat in the Holland Tunnel for an hour. Ted quipped that if they stayed much longer they’d need to contact the Post Office to forward their mail. All the while, Brian was on his cell phone, trying to figure out where in the Emerald City of Oz the little shit had ensconced himself. They were all tired and hungry, and the half hour they’d spent in the middle of nowhere changing a flat hadn’t helped. Nor had the joint. Brian was coming down off his high right in the middle of a traffic jam at the intersection with Canal Street. It wasn’t pretty.

New York was on a grid. The avenues run north-south and the streets run east-west . . . unless, of course, you’re in the village and then all bets are off. Brian was sweating. He could smell it. All around him cars were honking – were they honking at him? He had no idea. When they were stopped at a light, he lit a cigarette and took a deep draw. It slowed his heart rate just enough that he could make sense of Varick Street but only just barely.

 _Just park the fucking car_ , he thought. Thank God there was a parking garage without a sign announcing it was full (at 9 fucking a.m.!) at the intersection of Broadway and Lafayette. Brian pulled in and spent ten minutes looking for a fucking space. By the time he found one and inserted the Jeep into the impossibly small spot, he smelled like he hadn’t showered in days. His armpits _stank_ , but none of his passengers seemed to have caught on that he’d had no fucking idea where they were going.

“Nice job, Bri!” Ted said. “Last time I came to New York, I parked by mistake in Brooklyn even though my meeting was in midtown. The cab ride was more than sixty bucks.”

Brian looked at him in the mirror with an expression he hoped coveyed contempt.

“You couldn’t even find the right borough?” he said. “Good job, Theodore. Remind me not to let you drive us home.”

Ted rolled his eyes. 

“All right,” Mikey said. “Now what?”

“Chelsea,” Emmett said unhesitatingly. “My sixth sense is telling me we should go to Chelsea.”

“You dick is telling you to go Chelsea,” Brian drawled.

“It’s as good a place to start as any,” Ted said practically.

They climbed out of the Jeep, and Brian locked the door. Okay, now where was the exit to the street? God damn it! The place was designed to make him feel like an idiot. He pretended that his phone just rang. “Anything?” he asked nobody. Meanwhile, Theodore sniffed out the stairway. Literally. It smelled like piss.

It was a warm fall morning. Brian squinted when they finally emerged from the garage as though he was a mole that’d been underground for the winter. There were people _everywhere_ , and they totally didn’t give a shit that he and the boys were looking around and blinking like country bumpkins. There were people in suits, hipsters with a disturbing number of piercings, joggers, panhandlers, nannies and bike messengers. Everyone had someplace to go in this unfathomably big city. Brian looked around. How did all these people get here? They weren’t _all_ born here – in fact, he was willing to bet that most of them weren’t. So, if you weren’t born in New York, how did you get here? Was it like an expensive gym? Did someone have to sponsor you before you can become a member? Or could you just step off a bus or a plane and slip in the backdoor? 

They started walking, and Brian pretended it was no big deal that he had no idea where they were going. There was a smell in the air that was hard to describe, but if he were asked, he’d say it was morning. Coffee, pastries, overflowing dumpsters and a hint – just a hint – of November. The subways exhaled steam and the squeal of brakes. People with briefcases bumped against his shoulders. Children in Catholic School uniforms ran by, laughing and shrieking.

Brian was so jealous he could taste it in his spit. Fate had been cruel when it decreed he had to grow up in Scranton and then Pittsburgh. All he’d known were failed mill towns and grudges as deeply held as embedded toenails. New York City breathed like a living thing, confident in the knowledge that God smiled upon it. The people who passed him were among the chosen few.

They walked. Golden leaves dropped like coins on the sidewalk. The morning sun glinted off windshields and windows. Nobody they passed was without a destination. Emmett and Ted admired the men. Mikey gazed around like a kid at Disney World, and Brian grilled his bank’s customer service rep. Have there been any recent charges to his stolen credit card? Please tell him there’d been recent charges. He wanted to go home. He was tired, and he stank. He wasn’t ready for New York. This was _not_ how he’d envisioned his first visit.

Colors must’ve been invented in New York because Brian had never seen so many. Sounds, too. It was hard for him to hear the woman’s voice in his ear assuring him that _Mr. Kinney, we will let you know the second a new charge appears on your card_. The air heaved with noise. Voices curled like smoke merging with the thrum of traffic. The _beep beep_ of trucks backing into delivery docks ran like watercolors into the Arabic dance music coming through the open door of an imported goods store. The horns of cabs did their best to split the heartbeat of the city into canyons of go go go go go but the laughter of the school girls drowned them out.

At last . . . _at last_ . . . the customer service rep told him his credit card had been used. It was one of New York’s many Sheratons. Brian told the boys where he was headed and raised his arm. A cab stopped. If it hadn’t, Brain wasn’t sure what he’d do. Stand on a corner waving like a loser? Over his dead body. The boys looked impressed. Or maybe they didn’t. The cab drove away too fast for Brian to tell.

Justin was lodged in a suite buried under an avalanche of expensive wine and food. His bathrobe was as thick as a polar bear’s pelt. Brian couldn’t decide if he was impressed or merely annoyed. Altogether Justin’s little adventure had cost him almost a thousand dollars, but if Brian had discovered him at some roach motel, his estimation of Justin would’ve dropped to zero. If you’re going to steal someone’s credit card, go all out. Don’t hold back. Don’t order a ham sandwich when you can order lobster.

Justin told him he looked like shit, and Brian knew he smelled like a locker room, but that only seemed to turn Justin on. They fucked face-to-face because Brian didn’t want to stop to roll Justin over. He barely got the condom on before he was inside thrusting like a maniac. Between lunging kisses, he saw Justin smiling. It was not an expression of contrition. It was one of triumph. Twat. The aftershocks following Brian’s orgasm were violent. He clung to Justin like a drowning man clings to the side of a lifeboat. Justin chuckled softly against his ear. He’d won again. Brian was too exhausted to care.

He let Ted drive back. He’d ask Mikey, but Mikey didn’t drive often, and if Brian was nervous navigating, Mikey would be a wreck. He rolled down the window so he could adjust his rearview mirror. He wanted to watch New York gradually disappear behind him – at the last moment only the tops of Empire State Building and the Twin Towers were visible. He felt oddly bereaved. He’d been in New York for about three hours, but part of him had stayed behind when they drove off. Some people dream of a place, but when they finally see it, they’re disappointed. Not so with Brian. The dream had solidified into an obsession. Someday he’d live there. It wasn't an “if.” It was only a “when.”

 

He’d applied to at least two dozen jobs in New York over the years, choosing only the positions that would be a perfect fit so as not to waste a hiring manager’s time. He’d been on the résumé and interview committee at Ryder’s agency for three years; you remembered the guys who apply for every fucking position that opens up. They oozed desperation, which was not a trait Brian admired. He always voted against them, and most of the others did too for the same reason. You had to fit the requested qualifications or else you looked like a pathetic jerk-off. Brian didn’t want to look like a pathetic jerk-off. Yet despite his flawless résumé, he’d never been offered a job – he’d never even been invited for an interview.

But then, just as he was approaching his thirtieth birthday, he was awarded the prestigious Atlas Award for Pittsburgh’s Ad Person of the Year and virtually given a job at Kennedy & Collins, one of New York’s best ad agencies. True, his first interview hadn’t been exactly . . . formal, but Brian was willing to bet Adam Lyons had never been fucked so well in his life. Brian pulled out all the stops, making sure the fucker came twice before he allowed himself his own release. Lyons had been so impressed that he promised Brian that his résumé would see the managing partner’s desk and then went down on him. Brian couldn’t remember the last time his cock had been worshiped so hungrily. The job was his. He knew it.

Suddenly, overnight everything fell into place. He’d be celebrating his birthday at the hottest club in Chelsea. He could see it clearly as though it’d already happened. For all intents and purposes it had. From here on out, it was nothing but formalities. The obligatory phone interview and the in-person interviews and then he’d be submitting his two-week notice to Ryder, trying to squelch the grin on the verge of escape. 

He put the loft on the market. Yeah, his initial asking price was high, but he didn’t care. With the money he’d be making at his new job he could afford to hold out. He made a checklist of what would come with him and what he’d sell. Everything with a respected brand made the cut – meaning anything he’d bought in the last two years. The other stuff he could replace. He put an ad on Craig’s List and started getting calls the next day. Most of the offers were borderline insulting, and he didn’t call the people back, but some were decent.

He’d already gone, and he told everyone as much. They were stunned, which pissed him off. They didn’t think he was New York quality? Fuck them. He’d forgotten them already, even Deb who, now that he thought about it, had never thought he’d amount to more than he already was. Even Mikey, but that would take a while. Brian would probably have to do something drastic. The same was true of Justin. Brian couldn’t just wound his pride; he had to break his heart. He didn’t have a choice. If he didn’t shove Justin off a cliff, the kid would follow him. He was tenacious as hell. Brian needed to punch him in the face. No had never meant no with Justin, and “go away” had never resulted in him leaving. Obviously Brian had never made himself clear enough.

It couldn’t be otherwise. Justin would merely remind him of who he was, and Brian was sick to death of who he was. Beyond sick. Sick implied he might get better. He didn’t want to “get better.” He wanted his old self to die. The pathetic child. The stagnant man. He hated them both, and not only that, he was terrified of what he was becoming.

That stupid King of Babylon shit brought out a side in him he hadn’t even known he had. There’d been red crescents on his palms the next day from clenching his fists as he’d watched Justin dance. Justin had left _nothing_ to his audience’s imagination. He’d virtually had sex with that fucking pole while everyone clapped and cheered. No one had ever seen Justin like that before – that wanton abandon belonged to Brian alone, but there the kid had been, squandering his beauty. Every cock in the room wanted that perfect ass. Including the trick Brian had chosen for the night! Brian had watched the guy devour Justin with his gaze, his hand kneading his dick through his jeans. Brian hadn’t known if he wanted to fuck Justin or kill him. All he knew was that he needed to _something_ or the rip tide of jealousy was going to drag him away from the shore and out into a dangerous sea.

He desperately hadn’t wanted to, but he couldn’t stay away from the backroom. Justin was almost surely there. Hell, if Brian was in his shoes, he’d make sure he fucked his trophy in public, reveling in the sound of men masturbating around him. And he knew . . . the little shit _knew_ that Brian would come looking for him, and he’d been right.

Had he ever been so aware of the sounds and smells, the eerie light that turned everything into a sleepy mirage so that if one regretted their visit one could pass it off the next morning as a dream? The place stank of sweat and sex. Condoms littered the floor, glowing under the black light. Brian looked around until he’d spotted Justin. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Justin was topping the guy, but he’d been surprised by the desire to rip them apart – to take the guy’s place. Justin’s pace could only be described as leisurely, but he’d clearly been lost in sensation with his head lulling back and his eyes closed. Had Justin ever fucked anyone before? Brian would consider it a safe bet that he hadn’t. He’d been shocked by his anger that he hadn’t been Justin’s first because _what the fuck_? He didn’t bottom for anyone, especially not a kid still in high school.

The situation had gotten out of hand. Brian had never felt anything like what Justin was making him feel and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. He was a man for fuck’s sake! Justin was a kid. If people found out . . . people outside the bubble of Liberty Avenue, Brian would be an object of scorn and water cooler whispers. He was arrogant and dismissive. He knew that, and he knew people would positively revel in his weakness. If Ryder found out, it might even cost him a promotion. An almost thirty year-old man with a boy of eighteen! Jesus, what a fucking mess! How had he let this happen, let alone get so far?

It _had_ to end. It _all_ had to end. He wanted to put it all behind him – the tawdry five blocks of Liberty Avenue in a second rate city. Friends like Emmett, and Jesus Christ, Ted. Friends like Michael. He was eating half his meals in a diner and working out at a shitty gym with shitty equipment. That couldn’t be the end. He was meant for better things, bigger things. He was meant for New York City.

 

He was going to buy an apartment in mid-town as close to Central Park as he could get. He wasn’t the Village type – east or west. He was a professional, not an artist. The price of real estate was jaw-dropping! Yes, investing in New York real estate was a surefire profit, but Christ . . . he had to admit to being a little bit scared. He’d never been in debt he knew he couldn’t pay off in a couple months; the kind of apartment he was looking at would bind him to a brutally expensive thirty-year mortgage. But it was worth it – every fucking penny was worth it for the satisfaction he’d feel every morning just walking past the guy at the front desk and down the marble steps to the sidewalk. He’d walk because who wouldn’t in New York? Especially not someone dressed as well as he’d be. But he’d know that at the first hint of a sprinkle a chauffeur-driven company car would whisk him home.

In Pittsburgh, he was merely surviving. But only just barely. In New York he’d have all he deserved; all that his grinding ambition had promised. He had to go. He’d go crazy if he didn’t. He knew he would. He could taste crazy on the back of his tongue like a regurgitated meal. It lurked behind every shadow. He could smell it in the booze he drank and the cigarettes he smoked. And he knew what it’ll look like. Crazy masqueraded as sanity but it was nonetheless there, waiting to tear its mask off the second he dropped his guard. Crazy would get him fired. Crazy would get him arrested. Crazy would make a fool of him. And crazy had a death wish. He didn’t want to die. Not literally, at least not yet. As long as there was a promise of a future, he wanted to live, but crazy would have to pack up and go. New York would drive crazy from his brain and flog it into submission. New York would save him like a baptism, and he’d be born again. An immaculate conception with no mother and no father – just pure bones and blood and brains. _His_ bones and blood and brains.

 

He made Justin cry. He’d had too. Shallow wounds fester; only deep ones kill. But he was surprised by how much it tore him up. Justin looked even younger than he was, stricken to the core by Brian’s cold announcement that he won’t think of him after he left. He wasn’t going to forget Justin’s name in a year; he will have forgotten it before the plane even landed. The boy’s eyes filled with tears. To his knowledge, Brian had never made anyone cry before. It scared him, and he reached out, unsure what would happen next. Was this the moment Justin would run out the door for the last time? Brian wouldn’t be able to bear it. It wouldn’t be right . . . not after everything . . . but Justin didn’t run away when Brian reached for him. He walked into Brian’s open arms and hung on. No one else would hang on – not Michael because he would know it was Brian’s choice and not even Lindsay because in the end she’d realize that by fighting him, she would lose him. Justin was the only want who won’t let him go – at least not easily, not without making Brian pay with his heart’s currency.

Brian slipped his fingers into Justin’s hair and cupped his cheek. He had never been this gentle with anyone since he and Lindsay . . . but that’d been different. Justin’s body was hot from crying; Brian pulled him closer as though he was protecting Justin from something, and then he realized . . . he was protecting Justin from him. He needed to go – for both their sakes. He’d done enough damage. Justin wouldn’t be crying in his arms if he hadn’t made Justin love him. It was like choosing a pound puppy and then taking it home and strangling it to death. This _thing_ between them was bad for _both_ of them. It had to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is dedicated to 2Sven and all the other participants in my "Discovering Brian" discussion who've given me more plot bunnies than I'll ever be able to write in a lifetime. A huge thank-you to all of you who made my little experiment a smash success.


	2. Chapter 2

He dreamed of New York, but it wasn’t just New York. The Jersey Turnpike was the Yellow-Brick Road. The Empire State Building was the Eiffel Tower. Washington Square had become Trafalgar Square. The Taj Mahal squatted majestically in Central Park. The Coliseum had taken the place of the Met. He hadn’t been to any of these places, but when he moved to New York City, he wouldn’t have to. New York was all those places and more. The most powerful city in the most powerful nation. He would travel, of course. Kennedy & Collins had clients all over the world, but even if he didn’t, New York City would sate his desire. Just a subway ride from his new apartment was the one stock market that could bring the world to its knees overnight. Who needed London and Paris and Rome when Wall Street was merely a Sunday morning’s stroll away?

The interview went better than well. Brian flew to New York the afternoon before. He’d reviewed his résumé and his cover letter, and then he’d gone through every interview question he could imagine. There were hundreds of them. His brain hurt by the time he decided he should call room service for some food. 

_What’s your greatest professional achievement?_

_Where do you see yourself in five years?_

_What's your management style?_

_How would your boss and co-workers describe you?_

_What would your first 30, 60, or 90 days look like in this position should you be hired?_

He ordered filet minion with mashed garlic potatoes – two in fact – and then flushed the potatoes down the toilet. He needed protein, not carbs. Protein kept you sharp; carbs put you to sleep. He drank some wine, but only two glasses, and went to bed at midnight. The next morning he ordered coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon. 

__He’d bought a new suit – charcoal grey with subtle pinstripes. Conservative. His shirt and tie were more “edgy” – plum and burgundy, but his shoes, of course, were Gucci oxfords. Even his Goddamn socks and underwear were top of the line. He wore nothing that didn’t cost more than it was worth. There were silver cufflinks and a seasonally-appropriate wool coat. His hair was flawless, his skin smooth and unblemished. His fingernails buffed and trimmed to just the right length. He only drew the line at plucking his eyebrows. There were some things he just wouldn’t do, but he did apply the tinted lip balm._ _

__The woman at the building’s front desk greeted him graciously._ _

__“Good morning, Sir. How may I assist you this morning?”_ _

__He took a deep breath. Was he nervous? He hadn’t thought he was nervous but now that it came time to open his mouth . . ._ _

__“Brian Kinney. I’m interviewing with Kennedy & Collins.”_ _

__The woman smiled. “Yes, of course, Mr. Kinney. They’re expecting you. There’s no need to sign in. Just take the elevator to the 74th floor and tell the receptionist you’re here.”_ _

__Brian smiled his most beguiling smile and watched the woman soften like chocolate in the sun._ _

__“Thank you very much for your assistance,” he said, and she blushed._ _

__The same thing happened with Kennedy & Collins’ receptionist. Brian smiled when he greeted her. He’d always made women swoon, and it wasn’t an accident. Knowing how to flatter a woman was the key to getting straight men to respect you. The faint blush, the averted gaze, the tentative smile – men were not unaware of how he affected women. Middle-aged women giggled like schoolgirls, and recent college grads adjusted their revealing tops to make them even more revealing. Brian always made sure to look at their faces first, meeting their eyes with a meaningful gaze, and then following up with an appreciative sweep of their bodies. He met their eyes when he spoke and complimented them on something unthreatening – a necklace, earrings, blue eyes (he had a weakness for blue eyes) their pretty smiles and lovely voices._ _

__By the time he was done with a woman, she’d let him do anything to her and not regret it the next morning._ _

__“Brian,” Adam Lyons exclaimed. “Welcome. I see you’ve already met our Alice. Please, come on in. You can leave your coat and briefcase in my office.”_ _

__Along with my next load_ , _Brian all but said out loud. Lyons read him correctly, and Brian fucked him over his desk – not just fucked, but the whole buffet. Brian sucked his cock and rimmed him and then fucked him like he’d never fucked anyone before. By the time he was done, Lyons was a blob of Jell-O, quaking and covered in come. 

__“You can expect that and more,” Brian assured him as he got dressed. Lyons just looked at him, dumbfounded and fucked within an inch of consciousness._ _

__From then on out the rest of the day was a breeze. He interviewed first with the higher level people who’d be working for him. Fortunately most of them were women. He watched them cross and uncross their legs, and every time he looked at them, their throats flushed. The smell of pussy filled the air, and the few men who were there looked like they were going to faint on the spot. _Aw, biology_ , Brian thought. _What a beautiful thing_. He loosened his tie, and held the women’s gazes when he answered their questions. If they were the ones in charge of hiring, he’d have the job, no doubt about it._ _

__Women were so fucking predictable. But then again so were men, arguably even more so. Their cocks ruled their lives. Either they wanted other men to fuck them or they wanted to be in the presence of men women wanted to be fucked by. At the end of the day, when it came to men, it was all about fucking. That was it. Nothing more. Fucking is a way of spreading your seed and the more seed you spread, the more of a man you are. You could dress it up in Armani and Chanel, but at the end of the day it was spunk and cunts._ _

__It was a world Brian ruled liked no one else. By the end of the day he’d fucked everyone who’d given him the opening, no pun intended. Another man and two women (he’d taken Viagra at lunch). When he didn’t get the job, he knew it was only because the fucker making the final decision was a sixty-something, limp-dicked son of a bitch whose trophy wife was fucking the shit out of the pool boy while he was at work farting into his five thousand dollar leather chair with a satisfied grunt._ _

__

__He’d just gotten out of the shower when the call came. It was Lyons. There were voices and music and laugher in the background. Brian’s heart rate spiked dizzyingly. This was it._ _

__“Hey, I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” he said as casually as possible. “What’s the deal?”_ _

__“The deal is . . .” Lyons replied “. . . is that there is no deal. They decided to promote from within. Some twenty-five year-old hotshot.”_ _

__Brian had been smiling, but the smile slipped off his face as though it was melting wax. He was stunned. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen._ _

__“Look,” Lyons said, “I’m really sorry.”_ _

__Brian tried to shake off his astonishment. “Ah . . . don’t worry,” he said. “To tell you the truth after weighing my options I decided . . . to go with someone else.”_ _

__“Then I don’t feel so bad,” Lyons replied. “So, hey, give me a call the next time you’re in the City. I’d love to hook-up again.”_ _

__Brian didn’t even know what to say. _Hook-up again?? Next time you’re in the City??_. “Yeah . . . sure,” he said and hung-up._ _

__Then he just stood there, wavering on his feet. It wasn’t sinking in. It would take hours to sink in._ _

__Justin was there. Brian couldn’t face him. He went back into the bathroom, closed door and sat down on the toilet. He was still holding his phone. Maybe Lyons would call him back. Maybe it was all a joke. How had he not gotten the job? He’d done everything right and then some._ _

___What now?_ The little voice was only a whisper, but Brian knew that by the middle of the night, it would be a scream. _Some twenty-five year-old hotshot_. This wasn’t happening. It _couldn’t_ be happening. It simply _couldn’t_. This was not supposed to be how his life turned out. Things weren’t supposed to end like this. How had it come to this?_ _

__Justin knocked on the door. “Brian? Are you okay?” he asked._ _

__It was only when he had to speak that Brian realized he was crying. He took a deep breath._ _

__“I’m fine,” he snapped, but his voice caught. He cleared his throat._ _

__Justin didn’t reply. Thank God. Brian would’ve torn his head off. He heard Justin’s barefooted steps and then the refrigerator door opening._ _

___"Shit,"_ Justin muttered slamming the door closed. “Hey!” he called. “I’m going to store. I’m out of Mountain Dew. Want anything?”_ _

__Brian took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. “For you not to come back.”_ _

__Silence._ _

__“Are sure you’re okay?”_ _

__“I said I’m okay!” Brian yelled. “Now fuck off!”_ _

__More silence._ _

__“Okay,” Justin said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then?”_ _

__Brian didn’t answer and only exhaled the breath he was holding when he heard the door clang shut. He was going to get plastered, absolutely fucking plastered. He blew his nose and stood up. What the fuck was he crying for? It was just a fucking job . . ._ _

__. . . but it wasn’t just a fucking job, and he knew it. It’d been a dream – it’d been his future._ _

__He locked his door. It was good to take precautions. He didn’t want to end up with a lifetime prison sentence when he killed whoever might walk through it. He retrieved the expensive bottle of champagne he’d bought to celebrate his victory and popped the cork. Fuck a glass; he drank straight out of the bottle emptying it so fast the bubbles made his nostrils feel like they were on fire._ _

___What now?_ Just as he known it would, the voice was no longer a whisper. It sounded as stunned and mystified as he felt. Hopefully, he’d pass out before the voice got louder and more insistent._ _

__Mercifully, he did._ _

__

__Ah, the irony. The person least likely to leave Pittsburgh was leaving for a city on the other side of the country. Brian would laugh except it wasn’t funny._ _

__Brian lit the joint and handed it to Mikey, who took one hit and immediately got high. They were sitting in the balcony in the old movie theater where they used to go when they were teenagers. Brian would buy a ticket with the money he stole from his father’s wallet when his father was drunk and then let Mikey in through the fire escape._ _

__“You know what we need?” Mikey giggled. “A super, humongous, woolly mammoth-sized vat of buttered popcorn.”_ _

__“One hit and you’re high,” Brian said. “That’s pitiful.”_ _

__“I am _not_ high!” Mikey protested and then laughed. “Okay, maybe I am.”_ _

__Brian smiled. They were watching a cheesy matinee horror flick. He was still hung-over from the night before, but the pot helped._ _

__“You know if the usher who used to tell us to get our feet off the seats is still working here?” Mikey asked, looking around._ _

__Brian looked around too. “Are you kidding?” he said. “He’s probably a fucking maggot feast by know.”_ _

__As will we all be someday, he thought. Some of us sooner than others._ _

__They finished the joint and talked about all the movies they’d seen there, and of course Mikey got all nostalgic._ _

__“I can’t believe they’re going to tear it down for one of those cheesy cinaplexes.”_ _

__“Yeah, there aren’t any balconies to get stoned in,” Brian said, trying to head off any more nostalgia. He wasn’t in the mood. To no avail._ _

__“When this place is gone a part of us will be gone too,” Mikey said._ _

__“You get extremely maudlin when you’re high,” Brian said, still trying to head the sentimentality off at the gap._ _

__“Well, this’ll probably be the last time you and I are ever here together,” Mikey said. “I mean, you’ll be in New York.”_ _

__Jesus fucking Christ. Great._ _

__Brian didn’t respond for a moment, but then he huffed out a bitter little laugh. “And you’ll be in Portland. What a fucking insane universe.”_ _

__“I didn’t say I’d go,” Mikey said._ _

__“Well, you should,” Brian replied._ _

__“I’m not like you,” Mikey said almost angrily. “I can’t just wake up one morning and decide, boom, it’s time to move on. No looking back. No regrets.”_ _

__Brian was starting to feel annoyed. “There’s nothing for you here,” he said._ _

__“It’s my home,” Mikey said with a hint of incredulity in his voice. “And even though it’s not Paris or New York . . .”_ _

__Brian huffed out another bitter little “duh” laugh. “No shit,” he said emphatically._ _

__“I’ve lived here my entire life,” Mikey continued. “It’s all I know.”_ _

__“Well, maybe it’s time to know something else, Michael,” Brian said irritably. This was not a conversation he wanted to be having after last evening’s phone call. “You’re not fifteen anymore.”_ _

__“I know,” Mikey protested._ _

__Brian turned to him. “Go with David,” he said. “Get the hell out of here.”_ _

__Mikey got that slightly hurt deer-in-headlights look he got whenever Brian said something he found disturbing. Brian relented and kissed him._ _

__

__They’d moved to Pittsburgh when he was fifteen, trading the dying factories of Scranton for the bleak hills of a dying coal mining region. It was late October – of _course_ it was late October. His parents probably hadn’t even thought for a second of how hard it would be to start at a new school after the year had already started._ _

__Pittsburgh in the eighties . . . well, what can he say? Whole miles-long streets were lined with empty storefronts. The only businesses to survive were pawn shops, check cashing places, law offices specializing in criminal defense, and the occasional corner market and fast food restaurant. Whole blocks of houses were boarded-up. The windows of defunct business were opaque with soap._ _

__His parents bought a house much larger and nicer than they could’ve afforded virtually anywhere else. It was in an area zoned entirely residential with sidewalks and cul-de-sacs, so different from their home in Scranton, which it had been one floor of a three-floor house. Brian thinks about it now and realizes his parents must’ve thought they’d made it big. No trains clattered by at night making the windows rattle in their frames. No bars next door spilling out their angry, disillusioned patrons every night. It was a Real American Neighborhood, doggone it, with a church you had to drive to and a grocery store big enough to require carts. Shit. His parents must’ve thought they were all that. Stupid fuckers._ _

__All the houses were brick – not post-war but not seventies. Vietnam houses with attached garages. American flags and tidy little yards. Brian had hated it the second he got out of the car. He’d hated the way his father put his arm around his mother’s shoulders as though they’d reached the Promised Land. He’d hated the segregated high school with its bored, underpaid teachers._ _

__The only saving grace was the dead end streets. Scranton had been too crowded and compact for dead ends, but Pittsburgh was full of them. Prospect Lanes ended in bramble-covered chain-link fences, and Sunset Drives ended in pits of gravel and broken concrete. When he wasn’t with Mikey, Brian had roamed these nowhere lands of suburban dreams, smashing empty liquor bottles and throwing rocks at crows. He was Clint Eastwood in the Wild West, John Wayne in the Badlands of South Dakota, two pistols at his side. Bang Bang!_ _

__He was going to escape. First it was going to be as a CIA agent, then it was going to be as a rock star, then it was going to be as some rich motherfucker. He’d applied to colleges all over the country, but at the end of the day, Carnegie Melon was the most prestigious school to offer him a scholarship. So he’d stayed in Pittsburgh and then he’d gotten a job with Ryder’s agency and then and then and then and then and then . . ._ _

__. . . and now it was all carved in stone. New York had been a dream, and he’d looked like a fucking idiot for telling everyone he was already there when in fact he probably hadn’t even been in the race._ _


	3. Chapter 3

Brian looked at Vic where he sat at the head of the table as objectively as he could – well, as objective as anyone can be with someone they love. Vic hadn’t been a part of the Novotny household when Brian first met Michael, but that hadn’t mattered. As soon as Vic had recovered enough to socialize, he and Brian had bonded effortlessly. Vic had a world-weary sense of humor that Brian connected with. Whenever Mikey and Deb looked puzzled by something Vic said, he’d wink at Brian because both of them knew that Brian got it. They were kindred spirits in their own way.

They were celebrating Vic’s exoneration. Brian was happy for him – _of course_ he was happy, but that night Vic scared him. Vic had been in the fix he’d been in because he’d desired a younger man – he’d wanted to forget for just a second that he was no longer young and beautiful and healthy and desirable. He’d just wanted that simple moment of connection with another man, and look what had happened. He’d ended up in a fucking jail cell! 

Brian watched Vic smile wearily as those around him kissed his cheek and congratulated him. Yes, he’d saved himself from the last pit of hell, but he was already dead and had been for years. Both he and Brian knew it. They were brothers in that knowledge. They both knew that it was only a matter of time before Brain joined him. It was where all lonely gay men ended up. Burning with memories of a lost youth, singed with desire. Because the mind doesn’t grow old the same way the body does; the mind screams to the sky “I AM YOUNG! I REMEMBER EVERYTHING!” But the body is cruel. It’s disgustingly mortal. It wrinkles and sags off the bones as loose and pale as turkey fat. Brian shuddered. He wasn’t going to decay. It wasn’t going to happen to him – at least not until he was six feet under and then who gave a shit.

Brian wanted to be alone with Vic – not to talk, but to just sit together quietly and drink a couple beers – but everyone was there. This was a party. It wasn’t a funeral. He and Vic would have their funerals soon enough. This was a happy occasion.

But Brian wasn’t happy when Lindsay and Justin inevitably brought up the topic of New York. They didn’t know. No one knew. They would soon, but Brian wanted to put that day off for as long as possible. He told them to shut the fuck up and pushed his chair back from the table. He needed a smoke. He needed to get the fuck away from everyone.

He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t blind. He knew he was perceived as making a mountain out of a molehill about this birthday. He wished he could put on a convincing mask of indifference, but he couldn’t. He was in too much pain. And he was tired. He’d been hiding the secret of his failure for so long from everyone – from Michael, from Lindsay, from Deb, from Justin. He was tired. Disappearing into New York would’ve been easy. There were a million Brian Kinney’s in New York; he’d looked in the phone book. He would’ve told no one the name of the agency he’d be working for. He’d have slipped unnoticed from one life into another. The only one he’d felt pangs of guilt for was Gus, but Gus wasn’t even walking yet. He didn’t know who the fuck Brian was, and by the time he was old enough to wonder . . . well, Brian would’ve been _long_ gone by then.

He sat at the bar playing with his cigarette, twirling it between his fingers. He was going to leave before the others did. He didn’t want to deal with any of them. Michael could fuck off back to the good doctor’s house; Lindz and Mel could fuck off back to Lesbo Land, Justin and Vic could fuck off back to Deb’s. They could all fuck off . . .

Brian was going to the baths.

As always the baths were deliciously filthy. They stank of sweat and spunk and industrial-strength cleaners. Brian always kept his flip-flops on when he fucked at the baths. God knows what kind of foot fungus he’d pick up! He drilled the living fuck out of three guys in one room, pushing away their heads if they tried to kiss him. If he was a different kind of man, he’d insist they wear hoods. He didn’t want to see their faces. He didn’t want to know the color of their eyes. He only wanted to know their holes. Their mouths, their anuses. 

When he got home, he took a half an hour shower and fell asleep with his hair still wet and his towel wrapped around his waist.

 

He had three days before he turned thirty. There wasn’t a second during that time that he wasn’t at the office or fucking a man in his bed. Muscled shoulders, six-pack abs, necks as thick as tree trunks. Brian fucked them all, his blood coursing through his veins laced with whiskey, coke and poppers. He wore cock rings and practically screamed when he let himself come. He left bruises and called men’s assholes “pussies” as though he was in a bad porn flick. He didn’t give a fuck. If he wasn’t drunk or high and/or having an orgasm, he’d have to think. He didn’t want to think. He wanted to come and come and come and come. He wanted to come his fucking brains out. He couldn’t come hard enough. He couldn’t come often enough. His brain screamed at him, “Come, you motherfucker, come! You can come harder than that! What’s wrong with you? Are you getting old, you pathetic bastard? Come your fucking brains out!!”

When he wasn’t working or fucking, he was waiting for the next guy he’d contacted through the internet to arrive. Bottle of Beam in one hand and a joint in the other, he staggered around the loft, laughing out loud at how funny life was – what a fucking joke it was. When his doorbell rang he slurred into the intercom, “Get your ass up here.” The guys were never as fucked up as he was, and all of them looked slightly alarmed by the state of the loft, by the state of Brian himself. But Brian was beautiful even when walking a very fine line between functional and a fucking mess. They sucked his cock and fingered his asshole and let him fuck them in any position Brian wanted, no matter how uncomfortable . . . or scary.

 

He knew that someone would come looking for him on his birthday, probably Mikey, so he didn’t have anyone in his bed on the morning of May 21st when they all showed up. Michael, Lindsay, Emmett, Ted, Justin . . . and, Jesus, even Melanie. He’d left his door open so he wouldn’t have to get up to let them in. And sure enough. There they all were. Wanting to have fun and play around. He was ashamed by how much hatred he felt for them in that moment. They weren’t listening to him when he told them to leave him _the fuck alone_!

He ruined the party the second the blindfold came off by announcing his job prospects had fallen through, and then he flung himself into the coffin they’d somehow procured as decoration along with a cake shaped like a tombstone. Everyone went silent. Nothing was funny anymore. Thank God no one asked him what’d happened. He would’ve torn their head off.

They couldn’t get him out of the coffin. He rolled over onto his side so all they could see was his back and clung to the satin cushioning. Time passed. When they finally realized that no amount of cajoling was going to work, they left. He had no idea where he was. Had they rented a room in an actual funeral parlor? And whose fucking idea had it been? He couldn’t guess – they all had motives, except for maybe Justin. Emmett – it had to be Mr. Party Planner. Seconded, most likely by Ted whom Brian had been torturing for years about his age. Lindsay would’ve thought it was cute; Melanie would’ve thought it was hilarious, and Mikey? Well, Mikey had never really taken Brian’s terror of growing old seriously. No one did. Thank God Deb hadn’t been there! She would’ve pried him out of the coffin like a pearl from an oyster, and then he’d have to swear and yell and let them all have a piece of his mind along with their pieces of cake. It would’ve been ugly. 

At some point, he fell asleep. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was.

When he woke, he rolled over cautiously and peeped over the side of the coffin. It would be just like Justin to hang around . . . and sure enough, there he was, sitting on the floor with his sketch pad, furiously drawing God only knew what.

“Hi,” he said nonchalantly as though Brian hadn’t been lying for hours in a casket. “Hungry? There’s tons of cake left.”

Brian glared at him.

“Why didn’t you leave with the rest of them?” he asked irritably.

“I did,” Justin said cheerfully. “I went to Lindsay and Mel’s for lunch and borrowed one of Lindsay’s pads. She dropped me off here on her way to Gus’s playdate. She told me to tell you that you’re a big baby. By the way, you’ve been snoring like a bear. That coffin must be comfortable.”

Brian groaned and sat up. He felt like he’d slept for a million years. Justin put his pad aside and stood up. He walked over to the half-eaten cake and pulled off a chunk and ate it. When he licked the frosting off his fingers, Brian’s cock twitched. Justin tore off another chunk and came over to him.

“Here,” he said and held it out. “All that fucking you’ve been doing must’ve made you hungry.”

Brian looked at him suspiciously, but Justin’s beatific face was the very picture of innocence. Brian reached for the cake, and before he knew what was happening, Justin mooshed it in face. Then the little fucker ran back over to the cake, grabbed another chunk and ground it in Brian’s hair.

Brian was in shock. Had that just happened? Yes, apparently it had, because now Justin was shoving another handful of cake down the back of his shirt.

No one – as in _no one_ – had ever done anything like that to him since he used to be bullied in grade school – except back then it’d been mud, not cake.

He stared at Justin, completely stunned, watching the boy crack up laughing until he was out of breath.

What on earth had given the little shit the impression that Brian would be okay with something like this? Brian quickly went over the options: if he wanted to remain in-character, he’d rip Justin a new asshole and spit in it for good measure. If he wanted to be a “good sport,” he could laugh, retrieve the cake from his shirt and throw it at Justin. If he wanted to play it cool, he could tell Justin to take of his t-shirt so he could wipe his face clean with it, letting his serious calm dissolve the smile from Justin’s face . . .

. . . or he could do what he did.

He leapt out of the coffin, grabbed the little fucker, threw him over his shoulder, carried him over to the cake, plunked him down on the table, flipped him over, yanked down his pants, put on a frosting-covered condom and fucked him hard, every now and then rubbing his palm in cake and smacking Justin’s ass until there were hand-shaped pieces of cake all over his gorgeous pink cheeks.

Justin pushed back into Brian’s thrusts wantonly, moaning loudly. Even after all the fucking he’d been doing, Brian couldn’t last. He slammed his pelvis against Justin’s ass, impaling him as deep as possible and came with a loud, undignified grunt. He collapsed on top of Justin and, for good measure, found one of the few unmolested pieces of cake, rubbed half of it in Justin’s hair and shoved the other half in his mouth hungrily.

It was good cake. Damn good cake. At least the gang hadn’t skimped when it came to food.

 

The thing that baffled Brian the most about Justin was that Justin was immune to reality. Someone else might call it “endearing,” but Brian didn’t do “endearing.” He did “shut the fuck up,” which you’d think was sufficiently real to thwart Justin’s next foray into “you’ve got to be kidding” Land, but it wasn’t.

The latest thing was the prom. Justin wanted Brian to go to his prom. His high school prom. And not as a chaperone. Justin wanted them to dress up in tuxedos, buy each other corsages, rent a limo, and dance the night away under the stars . . . and the stares of a hundred teenagers. As it’d been with the cake-mooshing, the question was what in the world had given Justin the idea that he could ask Brian to a _prom_ and have his bat shit proposal accepted, let only not mocked.

“Go buy a corsage,” Brian said and watched Justin’s face brightened for an instant. “For someone else.”

The sunshiny smile slipped off Justin’s face. Brian chastised himself for feeling guilty and headed for the backroom. Justin was always turning him into the Bad Guy. The routine was getting as old as he, Brian, was.

As far as he knew, Brian had never made anyone’s dreams come true – well, unless you counted the guys in the backroom lining up to suck his cock. If he’d ever sensed he was making Mikey’s day, he’d quickly hauled off and metaphorically slapped him. Hard. And he was constantly breaking Lindsay’s heart. He knew that. Maybe he’d made her dreams come true once upon a time, but that would’ve been a long time ago and he couldn’t remember, and if he had made her dreams come true, he’d eventually ruined it all by breaking up with her.

Pleasing someone outside the bedroom and the backroom was a daunting prospect. What if he tried and failed? What if he made a fool of himself? What if wanting to make someone’s dreams come true meant that you had feelings for them? They’d find out, and then all bets were off. Despite what people obviously thought, Brian didn’t enjoy hurting people. What if he merely thought he had feelings for Justin but didn’t really. He’d break Justin’s heart. Maybe that slight queasiness he felt every time he saw Justin wasn’t pleasure; maybe he’d eaten some potato salad that’d been left in the sun too long. Why get the kid’s hopes up? Why try to make him happy only to do what he’d done to Lindsay? The conversation would be beyond horrible.

No, he was not going to go out of his way to make Justin happy. If he did so inadvertently, well, okay, that was fine. But he sure as hell was _not_ going to put on a suit and show up in a ballroom full of balloons and a huge, sparkly banner reading “Congratulations Class of 2001” just to be gawked at.

And he especially wasn’t inclined to make anyone’s dreams come true after his had been shattered.

 

He made the mistake of telling Lindsay about Justin’s proposal. He’d thought it would make her laugh at the hilarity of it all. It didn’t. She’d found it touching.

“Oh, I think that’s so adorable that he asked you,” Lindsay cooed excitedly. “Despite the somewhat questionable difference in your ages and the fact that emotionally, he’s twelve years your senior.”

Brian rolled his eyes. Ha ha, hilarious. “Not going. Too old,” he said. 

He’d demanded she go shopping with him during his lunch break. One of the few things, besides fucking and taking drugs, that soothed him was shopping. He strolled around the high-end boutique idly touching one beautiful item after the other. Nothing was grabbing him, not even the hand-stitched Italian leather wallets. That was not a good sign.

But then something caught his eye.

“Oh, I know,” she said teasingly. “You’re thirty, how traumatic. But it is something we all go through if we’re lucky to live that long.”

Lucky. That was debatable. Brian was feeling everything but lucky. If he was really “lucky,” he’d step out into the street and get hit by a bus.

The scarf was beautiful. Pristine white flawless cashmere and suitably expensive. It caught Brian’s eye from across the room.

“But to carry on like it’s the end of your life!” she said, sounding frustrated. They were all frustrated with him.

“It is,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s the _beginning_ ,” she said. “A whole new way of thinking about yourself. Feeling a whole new sense of entitlement and accomplishment.”

Brian smiled humorlessly. That was from a commercial he’d written the fucking copy for, which meant it was total bullshit.

“Ohhh,” she said when he told her. “Okay. I guess I only quote from the masters. But it’s the truth. I want wrinkles; I want to have grey hair. I want Gus to make me a grandmother. I want to grow old with Melanie.”

Brian stared at her incredulously. “Do you want me to puke?” he asked. “Right here? I don’t want grey hair and wrinkles. I don’t want to be a grandfather, and I _definitely_ don’t want to grow old with Melanie . . . or anyone else.”

He strolled over to the scarf and touched it. It was softer than soft.

“What _do_ you want?” she asked.

Brian pulled the scarf off the mannequin, wrapped it around both fists and pulled it taut.

“This,” he said.

Lindsay was disappointed by his answer to what he knew she believed was a serious question. 

“It’s very beautiful,” she said with a smile and a hint of resignation. He was hopeless.

He wrapped the scarf around his neck and smiled without looking at her. “You know?” he said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should celebrate turning thirty.” He let the smile slid off his face. “Give myself something very special.” He tightened the knot. Lindsay reached out and pulled it loose.

“ _Now_ you’re talking,” she said.

Brian still didn’t look at her. His mind was already far, far away.

“Is this a gift, sir?” the sales clerk asked when Brian brought the scarf to the counter and pulled out his wallet. He thought for a second. Yes, it definitely was a gift.

“Shall I wrap it for you?” she asked.

Brian smiled at her. “With the prettiest ribbon you have,” he said.

 

Emmett was throwing a party for Mikey and Dr. David’s departure to the wilds of Canada or wherever the fuck else they were headed. The theme was lumberjacks. Everyone was supposed to wear flannel. Once again, in the space of just a few days, Brian was forced to wonder what the fuck people were thinking. Did they really expect him to show up? Did anyone know him at all?

Apparently not.

So Mikey was going through with it. Brian had been sure all the glaciers in the North Pole would melt and flood the world before Mikey left Pittsburgh. He’d been wrong. It was disconcerting. He was _never_ wrong when it came to Mikey.

Brian took off his shoes and put them in the closet and then threw his socks in the hamper. He hung up his suit and took off his tie and shirt. He felt giddy, and he hadn’t even done any drugs yet. In the shower, he tried not to think about what he was supposed to do without Mikey in this life. The universe was topsy-turvy and ass-backwards. He wasn’t going to New York, and Mikey was going to Portland with a man Brian loathed. The chances Brian would ever visit were slim to nil. He was _not_ going to be the guest of Dr. Cameron and Mrs. Michael Novotny. No way. Not happening. He’d go to Justin’s prom before he did that.

He could feel something in his chest clawing to get out. It was a combination of panic and grief. Everything had gone terribly wrong in the course of a week, and they weren’t going to stop going wrong. He’d never lived without Mikey before. He wasn’t sure he knew how.

 _Enough of that bullshit_ , he told himself. This was a party, not a funeral.

He put on a pair of tight-fitting, black jeans and nothing else. The whiskey he poured into his glass was ridiculously expensive and the pot he smoked was the best he could buy. He lay on the rug, savoring putting off his gift to himself, enjoying the golden burn of the liquor and the sensation of the black velvet ribbon under his fingertips. When he was sufficiently high, he tugged on one end and it fell open. Inside the box was the beautiful scarf.

He’d avoided breath play with his tricks and had never done it even when they asked him to. It was too intimate. He didn’t want that kind of intimacy. He didn’t want to stop someone’s breath even for a second. It was too close to . . . something that he didn’t want any part of. He didn’t want someone’s eyes staring into his and then rolling backwards as Brian squeezed his throat. He didn’t want the gasped resuscitation and the tears he’d heard that sometimes follow . . .

. . . but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been curious. Apparently having an orgasm on the edge of consciousness was the most intense sexual experience someone can have. A rush suspending time and then drifting like a feather back down to earth, slowly slowly. The orgasm was said to last longer the closer you got to actual strangulation. It was like amyl nitrite times a thousand.

Brian pulled the scarf from the box. It was perfect. Soft and wide enough not to leave a mark like a rope would. The only question was how was he going to do it? He’d have to stand on a stool.

He was rock hard already, aroused by nothing more than anticipation. No fantasies needed. He was finally going to do it. The trick was going to be to keep himself from coming too soon. He wanted the build-up, the slow tightening of the noose, the kiss of panic and the sweet sweet sensation of walking an edge, hovering above falling . . .

. . . falling. He wasn’t stupid. He could hang himself, but countless others had practiced auto-erotic asphyxiation and didn’t die. He’d stay on his feet. All he’d do was slowly lower himself to his knees. Not all the way, of course! Just enough, and then after he came, he’d stand up again. Voila. No problemo. 

Everyone else would call it a death wish if they found out, but they weren’t going to find out and besides an orgasm wasn’t called la petite mort for no reason. So he’d die a little death? Wasn’t it better than dying a _big_ one. At least from their perspective? Just a little taste of oblivion, just for a tenuous moment of _maybe_. Of what if.

He didn’t want to die. He wanted to come. He wanted to glimpse a synthetic heaven. He wanted his eyes to roll back and his head to _pop_ like a balloon. He wanted to touch himself, to feel his tongue swell until it filled his mouth. He wanted his fingers to tingle and go numb until there was nothing – nothing but his cock and his panicking lungs and his thudding heartbeat. Weren’t people always the most alive on the verge of death? He’d been dead for too long. He wanted to be _alive_.

He was close, so _so_ very close when a sound echoed down a long narrow cavern – it was a voice. A voice he recognized but could not place. It was distracting. He tried to speed up his strokes, desperate for release, but where was his dick? Where was his hand for that matter? He tried to stand, but his legs weren’t his own. He couldn’t breathe. He knew he couldn’t breathe, but still it felt so good. He couldn’t find his cock, but he could feel it throb and the muscles in his abdomen tighten. God, he needed to come! But there was too much movement and sound and tugging. The movements were tightening the noose. He couldn’t breathe. Jesus fucking Christ, he couldn’t fucking _breathe_! Light snapped and flashed like old fashion cameras. He tried to swallow, but either he couldn’t or he couldn’t remember how. There was a roar in his ears as though he was standing close to railroad tracks and a speeding train punched the air right beside him. He was dying. He was dying. He was dying. He was dying.

And it was okay.

 

Later, Mikey put him to bed and tried to crawl under the covers and hold him, but Brian just lay on his back, unresponsive, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes felt like sandpaper from not blinking. Michael had saved his life . . . and Brian couldn’t feel any less grateful than he was.

_You’ll always be young, and you will always be beautiful! You’re Brian Kinney, for fuck sake!_

But who was this person “Brian Kinney”? Did Brian know him? Everyone else seemed to. For a couple of minutes he hadn’t been “Brian Kinney” or even just plain, old Brian. He’d been an angel’s breath. It’d felt good . . .

. . . and it’d also felt good that, at the last instant, he’d seen Justin’s face. His eyes were wide with disbelief – too astonished yet for it to kick in that Brian was there. A white scarf around his neck, his own eyes just as wide – just as surprised – as he stepped out of his old life and into a new one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, KellanKyle, for the beautiful gif.


End file.
